Gentlemen and Players
by grainweevil
Summary: An annual fixture for the officers of Fenchurch East turns out to be rather less sporting than first meets the eye. To err on the safe side, rated T for language and a modicum of innuendo.
1. First Innings

**Disclaimer: **Kudos owns them; I, alas, do not. I merely play with them in new and unlikely situations, for which I hope to be forgiven.

**A/N: **For this one you might blame, in no particular order: the effect the idea of Gene in cricket whites has upon certain people, the shocking state of the Australian team, and even a powder blue tuxedo. I blame the Muse; it's quicker. Thanks are again due to the entertaining conversation of the ladies of a certain dark corner of TRA.

As ever, that tireless beta to the great, the good and the grainweevil, Ms Lucida Bright, stepped forward and broke speed records. I imagine it's quite possible her blue pencil caught fire... Thank you, ma'am.

**Gentlemen and Players**

**1. First Innings**

_"Do you, Raymond Eric, take Alexandra..."_

"Wha...? What the fuck?" Detective Sergeant Ray Carling made a desperate bid for consciousness and opened his eyes.

He was lying against a pile of bin bags in a stinking alley he recognised as being situated behind Abdul's House of Kebabs. No unexpected wedding ceremony met his anxious gaze.

"Thank fuck for that," he muttered, relieved and disturbed in equal measure.

Memory gradually crept back and he recalled how they'd got there. They. _Shit. _Ray looked round and saw DC Webber on the other side of the alley.

"You all right, mate?"

"Not exactly, Sarge."

Ray staggered to his feet and stumbled across to his colleague. One look was enough to confirm the worst possible news.

"Shit."

xxxx

"Bloody hell, Ray. What happened?"

Ray came in to CID, holding the door open for his ashen-faced work mate. Harry Webber was gingerly cradling his bandaged left hand and sank into the nearest chair with relief. Chris was all concern and looked to Ray for an explanation.

"Saunders. He went for a motor right under our noses, the cheeky sod."

"What? But how...?"

"We went to stop him, Harry got there first and Saunders only went and closed the car door on his hand."

Chris winced in sympathy. Then realisation slowly dawned.

"Not his left...?"

"Yeah. Bastard nearly ran us down. Knocked me out," Ray added, feeling that maybe he was deserving of some sympathy too.

"You okay, mate?" Chris asked, taking the hint. "Can't be too careful with head injuries."

WIth one grimace Ray managed to convey stoic courage in the face of extreme agony, then turned to make careful enquiry after Webber.

"All right, mate? We'll get you some ice like the nurse said. Chris, go on. Ice. Now!" Chris was already out of the door. "Or frozen peas," Ray yelled at his retreating back.

Alex, seated at her desk and ostensibly immersed in a case file, looked on in undisguised surprise. DC Webber was no particular friend of Ray's, as far as she knew, and he was not one to show such concern for a colleague either. What on Earth...?

"Shit." Ray kicked the leg of his desk in annoyance. "Go and sit in the kitchen, Harry. Put your feet up or something."

Webber shuffled off, unsure how putting his feet up would help his hand, but not stupid enough to turn down the opportunity.

"Problem, Raymond?" Alex asked, sweetly; abandoning the charade of reading the file.

"You could say that, ma'am," he said, heavily. "The Guv isn't going to be happy."

"It's just bruising. He'll be fine by next week," she reasoned.

"Next week is too late," Ray replied in tones of deep gloom. He sighed and made his way to the Guv's office. "I'll have to tell him."

Two minutes later Gene burst out of his office, Ray trailing behind him.

"Where is he, Ray? Might be okay by Sunday. You know what an old woman Harry is..."

"He's in the kitch..."

"Harry? What the hell are you playing at?" Gene disappeared in to the kitchen and Alex lost the rest of the conversation.

A further three minutes passed before Gene came back in to the main CID office. He was looking thoughtful.

"Who did you say it was, Ray?"

"Gaz Saunders, Guv. Right in front of us. I got knocked out when he nearly ran..."

"Saunders? Thought he'd moved?" Gene was supremely unconcerned about any injury Ray may have sustained; the sergeant was made of sturdy stuff.

"Er..." Ray looked puzzled.

"What's he doing back on my patch...?" Gene murmured to himself, momentarily in a world of his own.

"Gene? What on Earth is this all about?" Alex had had enough of curiosity and was now demanding answers.

"What?" Gene was not pleased to be interrupted.

"What's all this about Sunday? Why Ray's sudden touching concern for Webber? What's going on, Gene?" Alex just managed to refrain from stamping her foot.

"Sunday, Bolls. The match."

"Match? _Football_?"

Ray rolled his eyes in disdain; women just didn't understand about the important things.

"It's June, ma'am."

"Cricket, Bolls. The station's annual match with Kennington. Details have been pinned on the notice board for the past three weeks."

"Oh." Alex seldom looked at the notice board; page three pin-ups and the latest sports car held little interest for her.

"Call yourself a detective?" Gene was amused. Ray smirked.

"That doesn't explain about Webber...?"

"He was our best hope. On their pitch he'd be dynamite with his off-breaks," Ray enthused.

"What?" Alex was totally at sea. She had only the vaguest idea about cricket.

"Lovely slow left arm," Gene observed, apparently out of the blue.

"He... _what_?" Alex wondered if she'd heard that right.

"Webber. Slow left arm. Got a good googly too." Ray helpfully added further mind-boggling detail.

Alex wondered if she was having some sort of innuendo-laden boy band type moment. What the hell was a 'googly' and did she really want to know that Webber had a good one? By the time she was once more conscious of what Gene and Ray were saying, they'd moved on.

"... will be behind the stumps as usual. Viv's in good form to come in at number four but he's a bit too wristy for three."

"Hmm."

"But whichever way you look at it, Guv, we're a man short." Ray looked miserably at his team sheet.

"I'm not bloody forfeiting this one, Ray. Not against Kennington. Not to that bastard Stillgoe. Find someone."

"Then there's only one thing for it..." Ray let the answer hang unspoken.

Gene pouted. He sucked his teeth. He strode towards his office and back again in irritation. He sighed.

"I'm too bloody old for this lark, Ray."

"Never, Guv. He's not, is he?" Ray appealed to Alex; clearly he was desperate.

"Huh? What?"

"The Guv, playing on Sunday. He's not too old, is he?"

Alex found herself brought up short by the image of Gene in cricket whites, bat flashing in the sunshine. It was a strangely beguiling vision.

"Ma'am?"

"Umm? What? No! No, he's not too old. Definitely not too old." Alex gave Gene her most winning smile.

"Hmm." Gene was still unconvinced.

"WG played his last Test in his fifties, Guv."

"I am NOT in my fifties, Carling."

"No, Guv, 'course not. Wasn't saying..."

"Sod it. All right. But I'll need to borrow some kit; my last bat got broken over some bastard's head in 1978."

Alex had absolutely no intention of spending her Sunday afternoon watching twenty-two middle-aged, over-weight, unfit blokes puffing after a small red ball. She was absolutely determined that she would not be learning the difference between a four and a six or how someone could seriously be referred to as Silly Point. There was absolutely no danger of her being roped in to help with the tea at half time.

"You're bloody coming." Gene was adamant.

"I am not."

xxxx

"Twenty overs each; everyone bar the wicketkeeper has to bowl two. Anyone reaching twenty is automatically retired."

"What?" Alex tried to make herself comfortable on the bench beside Webber as they waited for the game to start.

The ground was part of a public park in the suburbs of South London and, much to Alex's surprise, it was actually quite pleasant. There was a modest pavilion, benches dotted around the boundary and large stands of plane trees to protect the surrounding houses from stray cricket balls. In the far distance children were shrieking in pain as they fell off the swings on to the council-installed tarmac, while a group of youths were loitering near the bowling green listening to a ghetto blaster belt out a continuous diet of reggae music. The steady thwack of leather upon willow could already be heard from the other pitch as the Rotarians took on a Nat West Bank Third Eleven in the regional decider of the Surrey Chamber of Commerce Cup. The sun beat down upon the white figures, a steady breeze from the direction of Crystal Palace playing havoc with an assistant bank manager's comb-over. Alex slipped her sunglasses over her nose and wondered if there was any chance of getting a tan.

"For the benefit of the uninitiated," explained Gene, overhearing them, "what he means, Bolls, is everyone throws the ball 12 times at the man holding the funny-shaped stick."

She pulled a face without bothering to look at him.

"Apart from the man with the funny gloves. In our case, that's Christopher and he's called the _wick-et-kee-per_. You getting this?"

Alex folded her arms and humphed under her breath, still staring towards the wicket.

"If the man with the funny stick gets twenty points or _runs_, he has to stop hitting the ball and let someone else have a go. When everyone's had their turn of throwing the ball, or everyone from the other team has had to stop hitting the ball, the innings is over. Then we swap and do it all again with the other team hitting the ball and the ones who _were_ hitting it now throwing it. Got it?"

"Clear as mud, Gene. Thank you."

"Oh it could be worse, Bolls. This is a special shortened version. Test matches last for five days."

Alex rolled her eyes skywards and prayed to whatever gods there might be to spare her the long version. She idly watched as Ray marched out to the middle and shook hands with a man in a white coat and a Panama hat.

"Well, well. You gracing us with your presence on the square today then, Hunt?"

Alex turned to see a slight, dark-haired man in cricket whites smiling greasily at Gene. It was also the first time she'd actually looked at Gene. Her imagination really hadn't done justice to him in whites; he seemed to be wearing an ordinary shirt, sleeves rolled up and collar undone. Two buttons. No, three. She didn't dare look any further; a part of her was already inclined to want to drop to its knees and drool.

"Stillgoe," Gene acknowledged. The temperature had dropped ten or twenty degrees.

"Sorry to hear about your bloke, Hunt. Very unfortunate. Your officers do seem to be unlucky, don't they?" Stillgoe smirked.

Gene said nothing but Alex saw the muscles in his jaw tighten fractionally. Stillgoe's smirk widened.

"You hear about the lad, Hutton?"

Gene grunted noncommittally.

"Very promising young fellow. Could have been on the MCC ground staff if he hadn't come in to the force."

"Think I've heard about him, yes," Gene reluctantly agreed.

"Touch of gentlemen vs. players there, eh? Must be a novelty for certain people to be referred to as a gentleman," Stillgoe added, with a braying laugh.

The insinuation was clear. Gene glowered.

"Yes. We were pleasantly surprised when he came to us on temporary transfer. He's batting at three," Stillgoe continued, with relish.

"And here was I thinking you wouldn't have much call for a police diver in Kennington, Stillgoe," Gene observed, icily.

"Funny how things like that happen, isn't it, Gene?" Stillgoe's self-satisfied grin of triumph was such that Alex marvelled that Gene didn't flatten him then and there.

A shout of impatience came from Ray and the umpire waiting in the middle; the latter pointedly tapping at his watch.

"Is that the time? I'd best go and win the toss, eh?" Stillgoe said and strode off to the middle.

"Bastard."

"Gene? Why? What...?"

"DCI Stillgoe, Bolls, is the lowest form of life. Gives police officers a bad name. Deliberately engineering a transfer for the sake of a match? Bastard."

"You don't know he deliber..."

"It was deliberate. A diver in Kennington? What's he going to do? Go paddling in the duck pond in the Archbishop's Park? He'd have a job; there isn't one. Stillgoe will go to any lengths - any lengths, Bolls - to win. Just once it'd be nice to deny him the satisfaction. Gentlemen and players, for Chrissakes..."

"What? Gentlemen? I don't...?"

"Gentlemen and players, Bolls. Amateurs and professionals," he growled. "We'll see who's a fucking gentleman."

Ray returned with further bad news.

"Stillgoe won the toss."

"And that's just one of many reasons for calling him a tosser, Ray," Gene said, grimly.

xxxx

"Ray will open the bowling. He always does." Harry Webber was taking his duties as Alex's tutor and guide to the intricacies of the game very seriously indeed.

"How come Ray's the captain? Doesn't he captain the football team as well?"

"Ray is always the captain," said Harry, as if the explanation was self-evident.

It only took two minutes for Alex to see that the reason was, indeed, self-evident. Ray was captain because he knew how to do what Gene told him.

In theory Ray was in charge of who bowled and who stood where. In practice, every eye was fixed on Gene, ready to obey his every signal or whispered instruction. He stood commandingly, directing his troops to their places. A beckoning gesture, a hand to call a halt that would be the envy of a time-served traffic policeman, and he was finally satisfied.

"...then Viv's Fine Third Man. That's unusual."

Jolted from her day dream by the words, Alex pulled her sunglasses down her nose and quizzed Webber over them.

"Viv's a _what_?"

"Third man. Not unusual, but fine? Bit different. Think the Guv's worried that Ray's balls are bouncing unevenly."

"I beg your pardon?" Alex started to wonder if it might be worth tuning in again.

"The pitch. It's a bit two-faced; that last one was a regular daisy cutter."

"What about Gene, where's he?"

"First Slip."

"Presumably only stopping there because there isn't a first knicker. At least I suppose there isn't..." Alex murmured to herself. "What about Ray?"

"He's bowling," Webber pointed.

Alex regarded Ray as he stood, back to them, polishing the ball on his trousers. At least she hoped that's what he was doing. She was slightly disturbed to realise she was taking note of his bum. Shaking her head at the depths her mind was willing to plumb, she tried to concentrate on Harry's commentary as Ray ran away towards the wicket and flung the ball towards the batsman.

"Medium pace, is Ray, but he can pound in all day you know. Very well-timed release. Oh, that one must have hit a crack I think; the ball's popped up to Backward Gully."

Stifling a snort of laughter, Alex wondered if cricket really was this open to dubious interpretation? Was it just her mind? Webber, not obviously a natural at deception, wasn't betraying a hint of a snigger.

"Hello, ma'am." Shaz appeared. "Is anyone sitting...?"

"Shaz!" Alex had never been so pleased to see the young WPC. "No, no. Take a seat. You can have the benefit of Harry's wisdom as well."

Shaz responded with an unconvincing "fab" and sat down.

"What's happening now, Harry?" Alex asked.

"End of the over, ma'am. Viv to bowl from the other end now."

"How _can_ an over be anything but ended?" Alex demanded. "It's ridiculous."

Shaz giggled, stopping when she caught Harry's glowering expression. She waved at Chris instead. He flourished one over-sized glove and gave her a big grin before turning at his place behind the stumps and bending over, hands on his knees, waiting for the next delivery. Meanwhile Alex was starting to appreciate cricket on her own terms; Gene was now standing directly in her line of sight, back to her, legs spread wide. As Viv started to run in for the first ball, Gene and Chris both crouched down, ready to snaffle a catch.

Simultaneously both women let out a small sigh of appreciation. They glanced at each other and giggled in shared embarrassment at having been caught out.

"Cricket ain't such a bad game, ma'am," Shaz observed with a sly smile.

"It has its upside, Shaz. It has its upside."

After that Alex started to quite enjoy herself as she and Shaz spent their time rating each team member. Alex said nothing about Chris; Shaz didn't mention the Guv. The passage of play, the occasional flurries of activity, the strangled shouts of "Howzat" and jumping up and down appeals to the umpire were noticed solely in terms of whether a particular player looked hot while he was doing it. After ten overs, a consensus had been reached. Of the available nominations, Viv won easily. Ray was an unexpected runner-up.

xxxx

"What's happening now, Harry?" Alex demanded.

Instead of taking his accustomed fielding position, Gene was deliberately pacing out a measured distance towards where they sat on the boundary.

"Guv's on to bowl. Used to be a right nippy seamer, the Guv," explained Harry.

"Seamer...?"

"Fast delivery, ma'am. More of a swinger now."

"Really?" By now Alex almost immune to the double entendres that were apparently part and parcel of cricket terminology. "And what does that mean?"

"In simple terms, ma'am," Harry explained. "The Guv moves his balls from side to side as well as up and down."

"How... versatile."

Alex gave Shaz a withering look as the WPC hissed like a pressure cooker, trying not to laugh.

"Why's he starting so far away from the batting man, Harry?" Shaz managed to ask.

"The longer the run up, usually the faster the ball."

Alex raised an eyebrow behind the safety of her sunglasses and observed Gene. About thirty yards from the wicket he finally seemed satsified, stopped and dragged his right foot twice, three times across the turf to mark the spot. He adjusted the cricket ball in his hand, turned on his heel and glared long and hard at the facing batsman. PC Spendlove, the Kennington batsman, looked back with some apprehension, twirling his bat with unconvincing confidence. He visibly wilted under the Hunt stare. After an eternity, Gene started to walk towards him in long, deliberate strides; all endless legs, broad shoulders and powerful personality. Alex was surprised the stumps didn't just surrender and fall over of their own accord. PC Spendlove prepared himself for the onslaught.

"He'll start to run in a minute," Harry said confidently.

Twenty yards to go.

"Any minute now."

Ten.

"He'll have to in a..." Harry started to say, confused.

Gene was suddenly galvanised into life. Two quicker paces, a hop, a skip, a jump, his arm whirled over in a blur and the ball flew from his hand.

The combination of arm speed and Gene's height apparently caused the ball to arrive at the batsman with all the unexpectedness of a mortar shell. Spendlove wafted his bat more in hope than expectation and missed completely. Gene did not miss; the batsman's middle stump went cartwheeling backwards with a clatter, greeted by a cheer from the fielding team.

"Out! Clean bowled!" Harry exulted.

First blood to Fenchurch East.

The other fielders closed round Gene to congratulate him; Chris getting sufficiently carried away to risk patting the Guv on the back. As Spendlove trudged back to the pavilion, five runs short of his twenty, Gene's carrying tones could be heard advising Chris that he, Gene, was not a bloody fairy.

"Oh," Harry said, suddenly grave as the new batsman walked to the crease. "It's that lad, Hutton. He's really good; an all-rounder."

"Oh, the transfer," Alex remembered. "What's an all-rounder?"

"Good at batting and bowling, ma'am. Got a good length."

"Oh?" Alex had assumed an all-rounder would probably swing both ways, but what did she know?

Gene stood and silently watched Hutton walk past to his place. Other fielders were less restrained and there were sounds of blowing bubbles and enquiries after Flipper's health.

"Watch out, lads," called Ray. "It's Jacques Cousteau."

Hutton disregarded them, looked round the field like he owned it and proceeded to dig a small trench with his studs.

"What's up, mate?" Ray called across. "Looking for water?"

The close fielders rolled about in undisguised mirth at their captain's wit. Gene scowled and started blowing a silent tune through his lips in impatience. Hutton was finally satisfied and took guard, the umpire called "play" and Gene ran in.

"Four," Harry declared, as Hutton effortlessly dispatched the ball to the boundary amid groans from the fielders. Gene was unmoved, He caught the ball from Poirot, fielding at what sounded to Alex like Deep Undercover, and ran in again. After three more balls, Hutton was 16 not out off Gene's bowling and Harry was exuding anxiety from every pore.

"Guv's not going to like this. Guv's going to be pissed off."

Alex wasn't so sure. She couldn't detect a flicker of anger or concern on Gene's face. God knows, he wasn't one to display his emotions, but even so... Gene waved all the fielders out towards the boundary; even Chris was ordered further away behind the stumps. Hutton looked round and smirked; it was a psychological victory for the batsman. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

"That should dry up the runs," he said, happily. "No more boundaries now."

Gene nodded, satisfied, and ran in for his fifth delivery. The ball left his hand, bounced cleanly and Hutton gently caressed it with his bat. It dropped within a inch of Hutton's foot. Or it would have if Hutton wasn't already running half way down the pitch, screaming at his partner to run. The latter realised the plan and they'd all ready crossed for one run before Chris grasped what was happening. But he was, on Gene's specific instruction, yards away from the ball. The nearest man was Gene.

Alex watched as Gene continued his follow through, on towards the ball. Gasped as the tall man bent with astonishing grace and scooped it up, turning and throwing it towards the other wicket in an attempted run out.

"No!" Harry was on his feet. "Guv!"

With the full force of Gene's arm behind it, the ball was heading straight for the back of Hutton's head.

"Look ou..."

Too late. PC Hutton dropped to the ground as if poleaxed.

**TBC...**


	2. Second Innings

**Disclaimer:** In addition to the usual things that don't belong to me, the lyrics to "You Don't Love Me" and "Dreadlock Holiday" in this chapter are also owned by others.

As ever, many thanks to Lucida Bright, radio star, for being a beta plus. Charters and Caldicott are, of course, for you, ma'am.

**2. Second Innings**

Fenchurch East took the opportunity offered by the interruption and clustered at the boundary for drinks. Gene came over to Alex, dashing sweat from his brow and looking quietly satisfied. She tried not to notice he'd undone another shirt button.

"Enjoying yourself, Bolls?" He asked, collapsing on the bench beside her.

"You mean in between the verbals and violent conduct, Gene?" She asked, pulling off her sunglasses and treating him to a raise of the eyebrow.

"Verbals, Bolly? Just playful banter. As for the lad..."

"You set that up, didn't you, Gene? You set it up so you'd get an excuse to literally knock him out of the game?"

"I've always had a crap aim," Gene said, with insincere regret. "I feel terrible about it. Remind me to go and apologise when he comes round, will you, Bolls?"

"For God's sake, Gene - you could have killed him" Alex couldn't believe he could be this heartless over a bloody _game._

"He can consider himself lucky then. Too bad DC Turner wasn't quite so lucky, eh?" Gene's face had suddenly taken on that harshness that Alex dreaded.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Doesn't matter." He made a move to leave, but Alex wasn't having it and grabbed his arm.

"Get off me, Alex."

There was a charged moment. Slowly Alex removed her hand.

"Tell me, Gene. Please. It's something to do with Stillgoe, isn't it?"

He hesitated; indecisive, for once.

"Yes, it's something to do with Stillgoe." He subsided back onto the bench and let out a long breath.

Alex recognised a man who was resigned to telling the story; almost impatient. She gently prompted him.

"Who's DC Turner, Gene?"

"Who _was_ DC Turner, Bolls. Who was he? I hardly knew myself. I'd been down here with the Met less than a month when it happened." Gene wiped his hand over his face and looked round, as if hoping for an interruption to this sudden urge to confide.

"He... died?"

"Yes," Gene sighed. "He died. Shot. We were rounding up a counterfeiting ring. It was a sound operation; should have been a piece of cake. But someone tipped them off. They were ready for us. Turner wasn't quick enough on his feet."

"Gene, these things happen. It's a dangerous job."

"Turned out the gang had been on the radar at Kennington for six months," Gene continued remorselessly. "They hadn't told us, of course. Stillgoe decided they were his collar and didn't like the idea of the new boy from the frozen North getting the glory. So he tipped them off."

"_What?_"

"He as good as killed Turner himself, the bastard. All because he has to be the winner," Gene gave a mirthless laugh.

"But didn't you report him? Gene, surely..."

"No evidence, Bolls. You know how we all love evidence these days. Apart from you, that is. No, couldn't touch him."

Alex looked across the pitch. The youths with their ghetto blaster had moved from the bowling green and closer to the boundary rope. She wondered if it could possibly be true; a glance at Gene's stony features and she knew it was. She wondered what hurt him most; the death of one of his team or a man like Stillgoe defiling his beloved police force? His unbreakable band of brothers.

"Well now you know," Gene said, eyes resting on the Kennington players hovering about their fallen comrade. "Surprised you never wondered why people were always joking that you were still here."

"What?" Alex was confused. She thought back; yes, people from other stations did mention it now she came to think about it. She'd naturally assumed they were referring to her own conviction that she'd soon be home with Molly. "I don't understand."

"I get my officers killed, Alex. That's what they say."

Gene's face was bleak and she suddenly realised.

"_Sam_," she whispered.

Gene had come down from Manchester as a result of losing one of his team and within a month he'd lost another. She could imagine the spiteful comments that would have flown around the Met. She couldn't begin to imagine how much they must have hurt him. And then Shaz had so nearly... Alex remembered turning to him and shaking her head when she thought Shaz was lost; he'd aged twenty years before her eyes.

_Gene, I'm so sorry._ She couldn't say it, however much she wanted to. He'd hate it. Alex made the sacrifice and wrapped the sentiment up Gene Hunt style.

"Gene, beat the bastard any way you like," she said.

xxxx

Play resumed after twenty minutes; Hutton helped groggily to the dressing room by his team mates, retired hurt on 17. The match had taken on an unlikely flavour of the Caribbean, thanks to the strains of Bob Marley and the Wailers floating from their unexpected spectators. One delivery left in Gene's eventful first over, and the new batsman in was DCI Stillgoe.

"Bouncer," said Harry, sagely. He'd conscientiously returned to his duties as Alex's personal commentator, despite her best efforts to shake him off.

"Go on then, Harry," she sighed. "Tell me."

"You see Viv out there at Fine Leg?" Alex nodded, despite only registering three words in eight. "He's been put out there to take a catch off a mistimed hook."

"Really?"

"Yes, so the Guv's almost certainly going to go for a short pitched delivery." Harry noticed the vacant expression and explained, "The ball's going to be high up when it gets to the batsman."

"So...?"

"So he'll swing the bat round at head height to try and get a boundary. And if he gets it wrong it'll balloon up and Viv can catch it."

"Oh. I see, " said Alex, not seeing.

"Unless..." Harry looked thoughtful.

"Unless what?"

"Unless it's a bluff and he _wants _Stillgoe to think that..."

"What?" Alex was almost interested.

"Maybe it's going to be a slower, full length delivery. Unless it's a _double_ bluff and he _wants_ him to think that..." Harry Webber was starting to confuse himself now.

Gene finally seemed content with the field and started to run in, from the full thirty yards out. Alex watched as he charged in, blond hair flying. A jump, Gene's left foot was planted firmly on the batting crease, his arm came over in another blur and... Somehow, against all logic, the ball didn't fly out of his hand as everyone expected. Instead it looped up in a tall and elegant parabola. With a sort of terrible inevitability, the ball curved down towards the batsman's toes.

Stillgoe, expecting to be defending his windpipe from a ball bouncing up at 60-odd miles an hour, desperately tried to adjust and bring his bat down to meet it. He failed. The ball thudded into his right foot and all the fielders leapt up demanding "Howzat?" from the umpire. The latter slowly raised a forefinger; Kennington groaned, Fenchurch East cheered, the reggae boys compared Stillgoe unfavourably to Vivian Richards, and Gene radiated satisfaction.

"Harry, what's happening?" Alex demanded.

"Well he's out, isn't he?" Harry looked at Alex with pity. "LBW."

"LB what?"

"Leg Before, ma'am. The ball would have hit the stumps if his foot hadn't been in the way, so he's out for a duck."

"Good," said Alex, slightly surprised at how vehemently it came out. "But what's the duck got to do with it...?"

xxxx

Kennington station's innings was concluded. Apart from one of their number fielding the ball with his elbow and needing ice, some accusations of violent intent when Ray 'accidently' kicked a sprawling batsman in the ribs, and Gene's altercation with the reggae boys at the Long Leg boundary, the remainder of the overs had passed with very little drama. Tea had been taken; Alex eschewing the delights of a cup of Brooke Bond D and one of Mr Kipling's French Fancies in favour of a 99 from the Mr Whippy parked up near the children's play area.

"You're only dead once," she comforted herself. "Besides, it's a sunny Sunday afternoon. It's what ice creams are made for."

She tried to forget how much Molly loved an ice cream like this - 90% air and all the nutritional content of a paper bag - bought from a proper, unhygienic ice cream van. Or how often she'd been the dutiful mother and said no.

"A duck, Bolly? A duck is what you get when you're out without scoring any runs."

Gene was sprawled on the bench beside her; long legs encased in borrowed pads stretched out before him, bat propped up beside him, ready to go in at number three. She carefully licked her way round the chocolate flake in her ice cream, amused at his obvious effort to avoid watching her.

"In friend Stillgoe's case, his duck is golden 'cos I got the bastard out first ball," he explained.

"Why's it called a duck?"

She'd removed the flake from the cone now and was licking the insubstantial ice cream off it. Gene shifted uncomfortably.

"Why? You don't ask _why_ things are called what they are in cricket, Bolls," he reproved her. "They just are. It's tradition."

"Sorry," Alex used her not-at-all-contrite version of the apology.

Gene pouted. It should have annoyed him; it used to. But in the same way she would often put a pause before someone's name in a sentence, or how one 'what?' was nearly always followed with a more impatient repetition, it was just Bolly. To his exasperation, he feared he'd probably miss it if she stopped.

"So what happens now?" She asked, tossing the remains of the stale cone in to the nearby litter bin and returning to the bench, dusting off her hands.

"First of all you stop blocking my view," he suggested.

Alex spun on her heel and looked pointedly at the still empty pitch.

"View?" She asked. "Which one?"

"That one of your arse. Lovely and clear now, ta."

That earned him a look that would curdle milk and an uninterrupted view of the field of play as Alex sat down again.

"I _meant_ what happens now in the game?" She asked.

"Match."

"I don't smoke."

"As if I didn't know that by now... I meant it's more usually referred to as a cricket _match_."

Alex caught his eye and gave a twitch of a smile; he glowered.

"Ha bloody ha. D'you want to know about the _match _or not?" He grumped.

"Do go on."

"Shortly the twisted bastards of Kennington police station will take to the field and run around hopelessly as our gallant players dispatch the ball to all parts and we win in well under the allotted overs," Gene pronounced.

"And outside the pages of Every Boy's Book of Sporting Triumphs?" She asked.

"Ray will block for the entire innings like a Lancastrian Geoffrey Boycott, everyone else will be out for single figures except yours truly, and we'll waste the minimum amount of drinking time by getting beaten inside ten overs," Gene sighed.

"But you have a plan?"

Gene shot her a searching look and frowned.

"What makes you think that, Bolly?"

"Because you're a devious bastard," she said, after a brief hesitation.

"Too right." agreed Gene, smiling in satisfaction at the explanation.

_Because Gene Hunt can't possibly lose. _She wouldn't have said that out loud for good money; she'd never hear the end of it.

There was a smattering of applause from the hangers-on as the players took to the field and the umpire announced "play".

"So how did this contest get started?" Alex asked after a while.

"Useless bastard, Raymondo. That delivery was full, wide and slow; should have smacked it through Extra Cover," Gene grumbled, before realising he'd been asked a question. "Eh? What contest?"

"This annual match between you..." A frown from Gene. "Between _us_ and Kennington?"

"Oh that. Long story. Goes back to the 30s or 40s. Seems the Super at Fenchurch East, Chapple or something his name was. No. Charters, that was it. Well it seems Superintendent Charters was at the Division's summer ball and inclined to be disparaging about the cricketing prowess of the Kennington officers. Closest they got to good cricket was having The Oval on their patch, or something like that, he said. The story goes that Caldicott, the Super at Kennington was all for asking Charters to step outside and see if he could repeat that with a broken nose, but some fairy-arsed do-gooder stepped in and suggested they decide it with a match instead. So a tradition was born."

"Amazing. So you and Stillgoe are keeping up that tradition in more ways than one?"

"Never thought of it like that, Bolls, but yeah."

"Nice try, Gene, but I'm not falling for it."

"Eh? Dunno what you mean, Bolly." Gene radiated innocence.

"Did you make that up on the spur of the moment or have you been practicing?"

"Go on," Gene grinned.

"No-one ever knows the exact story of how something like this starts," she explained. "But more to the point, I've seen more than my fair share of Hitchcock films. You should have chosen different names."

"You should be a detective, Bolls," he observed.

xxxx

"Howzat?!"

The shouted appeal from the Kennington fielders was academic; DC Poirot looked dejectedly at his demolished stumps and headed slowly for the pavilion.

Gene was already on his feet, pulling on his gloves. He gazed round the park as he did so, and suddenly went still.

"Gene?"

"Shit." His glance darted between the waiting fielders and a lone figure who'd just entered the park. "Shit."

"Gene? What's the matter?" Alex couldn't imagine what the problem was.

"Bolly, got your handcuffs with you?" He hissed.

"Eh? What? Cuffs? Of course not. I'm off duty; what would I be doing with handcuffs?"

"Remind me to suggest a few things one day," he responded, from force of habit.

"Oh for..."

"Okay, got a fiver?"

"A fiver? What?"

"You know Gaz Saunders?" Gene's voice was urgent; he didn't have much time.

"_Who?_"

"Oh for God's sake... Gary Albert Saunders. Small time car theft? Knocked Ray over last week?"

"Umm..." Alex tried to remember if she knew his face.

"He's over there to the left of the bowling gree... No! Don't _look_!"

"Wha? I don't under..."

"Just for once in your life would you do as you're told without asking bloody questions?" Gene hissed angrily. "We can't let Ray know he's here, okay? He'll lose his rag and we'll forfeit the match. Saunders: blue anorak, mullet, smoking a fag. Got it?"

Alex nodded mutely.

"Get over to him and persuade him out of sight, right?" Alex opened her mouth to protest, but Gene didn't have time. "Threaten him, bribe him, whatever it takes. Just get him out of here. Go."

"Gene...?"

But he was gone, striding out to the middle and swinging his bat like a windmill, first with one arm and then the other.

Alex sighed; this was a new one. Convince a petty thief to go away without making a scene so as not to disrupt a cricket game. _Match. _What's more, a thief who she should be arresting for dangerous driving, assault and God knew how many other TICs.

"Time to go in to bat for the team, Alex," she muttered to herself.

Glancing towards Ray to make sure he was fully occupied with the game, she circumspectly made her way towards the bowling green. As she skirted her way round the boundary, she paused frequently as if still engrossed in the play. Gene could be seen standing at the crease, lord of all he surveyed. She waited long enough to see him ready his bat, flick it round with apparently no effort at all, then stand and watch as the ball raced to the opposite boundary, neatly bisecting two fielders. The bowler's body language spoke of extreme disgust. Alex smiled and continued on towards her target.

The difficulty was managing to approach Saunders without being visible to the players, but she was in luck. Even as she got near him, he started to walk around to the far side of a large rose bed. Quickening her pace, Alex moved to intercept him from the other direction, getting out her warrant card as she went.

"Police, Mr Saunders," she announced, flourishing her warrant card. "I'd like a word, ple..."

Before she could get any further, Saunders looked up in horror, threw his cigarette to the ground and ran for it. On instinct Alex started to follow, but stopped after a few half-hearted steps. The last view she got was of mullet and anorak disappearing out of the park gate through which they had arrived.

"Well that was easy." Alex frowned, slightly doubtful.

Gene's instructions hadn't suggested he thought it would be _that_ simple. What was Saunders caught up in that he should be so flighty? Making a mental note to get out the man's file on Monday morning, Alex started back towards the cricket pitches. On a whim she decided to go the long way round and complete her circle of the boundary. It took her past the reggae boys. She was unsettled to note their numbers seemed to have increased as the afternoon had worn on.

"A'right, darling?" She was inevitably hailed as she passed by. "Wassup? Don't you love me?"

"She needs some Jamaican lovin', Everton," laughed another. "Leave you sorry Trinidadian arse at home." Alex tried not to smile in amusement; it would only encourage them.

"'_Cos you left me, ba-by. And I got no place to go now_," they sang along to their ghetto blaster as she went on her way.

About two thirds of the way round, in the shade of the plane trees, she met an elderly gentleman coming the other way. He was being towed by an energetic dog with a large helping of Jack Russell terrier in its ancestry. The former greeted her with a smile; the latter with the characteristics of a bouncing ball.

"Afternoon," he said. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is. Er..."

"Oh don't mind him, he won't bite. Down Kap. Get down. Kaplan! I said get down."

Alex smiled gratefully as the dog was restrained.

"Kaplan? You must be a Hitchcock fan?" She asked.

"It's the wife," the man explained. "Always loved the flicks. We met at the Odeon in Streatham High Road in 1943; Joseph Cotten in Shadow of a Doubt. She was an usherette," he smiled.

"Funnily enough a friend was just mentioning two other Hitchcock characters to me," Alex explained, smiling back.

"Charters and Caldicott?" The old man guessed.

"Yes! How did you... Oh - the cricket," she realised, nodding at the game going on.

"Yes, I thought I saw you sitting with the policemen."

"What? Yes, I was. I am."

"It is Kennington's annual match against Fenchurch, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. How did you...?"

"Ex-copper. Ted Caldicott." He introduced himself, holding out his hand. "My dad was the Superintendent at Kennington."

Dumbly, Alex shook his hand.

xxxx

"Don't recall seeing him play before," he remarked, nodding towards the pitch where Gene Hunt had just despatched another delivery to the boundary.

Alex and Ted had retired to one of the benches to watch the game in relative comfort. Kaplan was still on his lead, tied to one of the cast iron bench ends.

"Gene?" Alex responded. "No, he doesn't usually. One of the players had an accident."

"An accident? Or an 'accident'?" Ted asked, shrewdly.

"I..." Alex stopped. Of course Harry's injury was just bad luck. Wasn't it? "I'm sure it was just an accident," she finished, sounding rather unconvinced. A nasty suspicion was beginning to form in her mind.

Ted watched the doubts chase themselves across her face and nodded to himself. "My allegiance may be with Kennington," he remarked, gazing at the field of play. "But I know all about Keith Stillgoe, and I know he's a bastard. I wouldn't cry if he was brought down a peg or two."

Alex looked at him in surprise.

"Doesn't look like it'll be today," she remarked.

"No? You don't think your lad there hasn't got something up his sleeve?" Ted turned to her and grinned. "Oh, I've heard all about Gene Hunt too."

"Not all of it's true," she laughed.

"I used to have a guv'nor like that," Ted reminisced. "Could be a right bastard if you crossed him. Loyal though. Once you were on his team, he'd go through hellfire to back you up. Look after you."

"Yes," she said quietly, concentrating her gaze on the match. "Yes, he does." Ted sensed a change of topic might be in order and reverted to the cricket.

"Looks like he's done his bit for his team here," he noted. "By my reckoning he's on nineteen runs. Another boundary and he could get twenty-three. A six now and he'll get twenty-five. That'd annoy old Stillgoe," Ted added, with relish.

"Six? That's the one where it goes to the boundary without touching the ground?" Alex asked.

"That's the one. I can see you're an expert."

"Never in my lifetime, Mr Caldicott," Alex grinned. "At least not if I have anything to do with it."

"Ah, now that doesn't surprise me," Ted remarked, as the Kennington fielders spread out around the boundary. "They're going to let him have one run and get rid of him as painlessly as possibly."

Gene was standing about ten yards to the side of his wicket, nonchalantly leaning on his bat, watching with apparent detachment as the fielders moved back. When the field was set to Stillgoe's satisfaction, Gene made his way unhurriedly to the wicket and looked around. The early evening sunshine turned his blond hair to gold, his spinning bat reflecting the light and giving the impression of a flashing blade. An unlikely heroic figure, but Alex instinctively knew that he'd try to get those six runs. It was a Gene Hunt kind of thing to do. She surreptitiously crossed her fingers.

By some fluke of coincidence, PC Hutton was the bowler. He'd steadfastly refused to go to hospital, said he was perfectly all right to play, and had proved it by taking the first wicket. He gazed down his run up towards Gene. Only one could be the winner of this contest, and he, James Hutton, was determined it was going to be him. He span the ball up once, adjusted his grip and set off.

"_I say I don't like cricket. Oh no,_" sang the reggae boys.

Gene remained standing quite upright, bat slightly raised behind him, his face a mask of concentration. Hutton planted his foot, his arm whirled over and the ball flew into the pitch short of a length.

"Bouncer," gasped Ted.

"_I say I don't like cricket. No, no. I love it."_

The ball ricocheted up off the pitch, still at terrifying speed, apparently making for Gene's head. He raised his bat, rocked back slightly on his heels, and swung. If he'd been called in as a late replacement for Bombardier Billy Wells, the Rank Films gong would have ended up with a very nasty dent.

"Hook! He's gone for the hook!" Ted was on his feet. "No! It's heading right for the man at Deep Fine Leg."

Alex strained to see and then realised. The fielder backing up under the ball, his hands raised to take the catch, was DCI Stillgoe.

"He's going to be caught, he's going to be caught" Ted repeated the terrible mantra over and over again.

"_You got to show some respect."_

Stillgoe, still going backwards, reached up. The ball, apparently travelling in slow motion, plunged down towards him. The inevitability of it was almost painful to watch. With a slap of leather upon palm, Detective Chief Inspector Keith Stillgoe took the catch.

"No!"

Then he took a step backwards... and fell over the boundary rope.

"Yes!" Ted Caldicott practically jumped up and down. The other members of the Fenchurch East team, watching from the pavilion side of the pitch really _were_ jumping up and down. Stillgoe was pounding his fist into the turf and letting loose a string of obscenities. The umpire raised both hands above his head, trying to stifle his own smile. "_'Cos you ain't got him out yet_," chorused the reggae boys. Even Kaplan seemed to understand and was rushing to and fro at the limit of his lead, barking himself hoarse.

"I don't get it," said Alex. "He's out, isn't he?"

"No, no," Ted explained, beaming. "Stillgoe carried it over the boundary rope. It's a six!"

It was then that all hell broke loose.

**TBC...**


	3. Close of Play

**A/N:** Rather a brief one, this; it just worked out that way. Many thanks for all the lovely reviews, here and elsewhere; much appreciated.

As ever, thanks to that beta plus, Lucida Bright; the voters' choice ;-)

**3. Close of Play**

It was only in retrospect that Alex was able to piece together exactly what happened. No, not _exactly_. As the man said; anyone who claims to remember every punch in a fight is a liar. But after talking it over, she was fairly sure she had a reasonably accurate idea of what happened.

Gene started it.

He looked around from his position of victory, happily basking in the glow of adulation, and swore. Walking round the corner of the pavilion, large as life, was Gary Saunders. Ray, his antenna ever tuned to Radio Guv, turned to Gene, frowned, followed his line of sight and went red.

"Gaz bloody Saunders," he exclaimed. "I'll fucking kill him, the little toe rag."

"Ray! Ray, don't you dare! _Raymondo_!"

Gene's injunctions were in vain; Ray was already haring after Saunders, cricket bat still in hand.

"Shit."

With no Ray to anchor the innings, Fenchurch East's already slim chances were as good as gone. Gene let his gaze sweep round the ground again; now was as good a time as any. With great deliberation, he threw his bat to the ground and followed it with his gloves. It was a dramatic gesture, totally out of place in the 1980s in the middle of a suburban London park. Had any passing 18th century duelists seen it, they would probably have asked for his tips on throwing down a gauntlet.

Alex, seeing it, frowned in puzzlement. What the...? She watched as Gene started to unbuckle his pads, but was distracted as a movement to her left caught her eye. One of the reggae boys was on the move. _And you'll be sorry you crossed me. You'd better understand that you're alone. A long way from home. _The lyrics echoed across the ground as he made his way towards the still sprawling figure of DCI Stillgoe.

"Hey, man."

Stillgoe looked up and scowled.

"Philips? What the fuck do you want, you black bastard?"

"Now, now, Mr Stillgoe, that ain't the way to speak to me," reproved the young man. "And here's me just wanna talk to you about me mother."

"Ted," murmured Alex, starting towards the confrontation. "You'd better get out of here."

"Me? No fear, Alex," Ted responded, sitting tight. "They won't bother me and I'm too old to run."

"Your mother, Philips?" Stillgoe's voice dripped with disdain. "Thought you'd still be trying to find out who your father was."

"Me mother. Who you fitted up, man," said Philips.

"Fuck your mother," Stillgoe responded, starting to get to his feet. He had other things on his mind; he'd get even with Gene bloody Hunt if it was the last thing he did...

"Whoops. Wrong answer," muttered Ted.

Alex began to quicken her pace towards the pair, but she was still yards away when she saw the first kick hit its target.

It was Stillgoe's. Desmond Philips rolled away, clutching his groin. Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw Philips' mates begin to move towards Stillgoe. She started to run.

"Don't be a bloody fool," commanded a voice, grabbing her arm and propelling her backwards.

It was Gene.

"We can't just leave..."

"Can't we? Anyway," he nodded his head backwards towards the alerted Kennington players on the other side of the ground. "Team mates on both sides are coming to help. It'll be mayhem in a minute.'

"But..."

"Shut up, Alex. D'you really think they're going to be stopping to find out who's on Stillgoe's side and who isn't?"

"But..."

He ignored her and ran to the nearest stand of trees, towing her behind him. They reached the safety of the largest plane tree and leant against its trunk, breathing hard. Gene popped his head round, stared intently for half a minute, then withdrew.

"That's okay; our lads have made themselves scarce. God knows where Ray's got to."

"Well good for them, Gene. What about us? We're on the wrong side of the sodding pitch with a gang war going on between us and the car park." Alex was a little scared, and it manifested itself as anger.

"Gang war?" He rolled his head sideways against the tree trunk and looked at her in surprise. "Nah, that's just Desmond and his mates. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Most of the time."

"_What?_ You know them?"

"We've not been formally introduced, but yes, I know him. Why d'you think he's here?"

"Wha...?"

"More to the point, why is Gaz Saunders still here?"

Gene levered himself off the tree and stood facing her.

"What?"

"You were supposed to warn him off."

"I _did._"

"So why was Raymondo chasing off after him like an overweight greyhound?" Gene demanded.

"What? But that wasn't..." Alex recalled the figure Ray had been heading for; it was definitely not the man she'd approached.

"It bloody was. D'you think I don't know the low life on my patch?"

"I..."

"Christ Almighty, Bolls," Gene sighed. "Don't tell me you chased off the wrong bloke?"

"I... Well how the hell was I supposed to know, Gene? You wouldn't let me look at him!" Attack is the better part of defence, she told herself.

"Oh for... How the hell you ever got to be an inspector is beyond me."

"I _know_ the criminals on our patch, Gene," she protested. "But Saunders isn't one of them."

"But he _was_!" Gene retaliated.

"_So_? Am I supposed to know the identity of every blagger who's ever set foot in Fenchurch?"

"Yes!"

"And what about 'Desmond'?" In her annoyance, Alex reverted back to her finger waggling quotation marks. "Was he once on your patch?"

"He... No. He's... "

"Let me guess; he's from Kennington as well?"

"No, he's from Brixton."

"_What_?"

"His mum lives in Kennington."

"Wha...? What the hell's going on, Gene?"

"Desmond lives with his auntie Vi on the Stockwell Park Estate, but his mother lives in Lambeth Walk. Honest, God-fearing woman, so I understand..."

"Gene! I don't need his entire family history. What's this got to do with..."

"Last month Stillgoe raided Mrs Philips' flat and found Desmond's stash of weed."

"So?"

"So he arrested _her_ for possession and intent to supply," Gene finished.

"He _what_?"

"She's been too ashamed to go out ever since. Not even to church," Gene finished, quietly. "Desmond isn't very happy about it."

Alex looked at him in appalled silence.

"You tipped him off," she whispered. "You deliberately told Philips to be here so he could do your dirty work for you. My God, Gene, what if they're tooled up? What if someone's killed?"

"D'you think I'm stupid, Drake?" He rasped back. "Desmond isn't like that. You saw who landed the first blow; Stilgoe. Desmond just wanted a word, didn't he?"

"And now it's kicked off. For God's sake, Gene..."

"Yes," he said deliberately. "_Now_ it's all kicked off."

"What d'you mean 'now'? It..." Alex let her brain catch up with her mouth and suddenly everything fell into place. The reggae boys had been hanging around the park all afternoon, but no-one had made a move until now. _Why_ now? "Throwing down your bat like that. It was a signal to Desmond."

Gene looked smug.

"No, that can't be right. They had a go at you when you were fielding over there at... Oh." Another penny dropped. "That's when you set up the signal."

Gene contrived to look slightly more smug.

"But why? Even for you, it's a pretty low..."

"Stillgoe started it," Gene said, shortly. All smugness vanished; he was not overly keen on hearing Alex's low opinion of him.

"Two wrongs don't make a right," she responded, piously.

"How about two set-ups making a right?" Gene asked.

"Huh?"

"Oh for..." Gene rolled his eyes again. Really, for a clever woman she was being surprisingly dense. "Harry Webber's hand injury? The one man who gave us the best hope of winning the match? Some piece of scum just happens to try nicking a motor right under his nose? Just happens to injure Harry's bowling hand? And just happens to have recently moved..."

"...to Kennington," she finished. "So I was right. Stillgoe arranged for Saunders to have that run-in with Ray and Harry?"

"Looks like it."

"For money? Or what?"

"Probably to avoid Stillgoe fitting him up for something nasty," Gene said. "Unless... If it was money that might explain why he showed up today. Maybe Stillgoe was slow to pay up."

"But that worked in Stillgoe's favour. Ray saw him and gave chase."

"Just as well I took out the insurance then, wasn't it?" Gene observed.

"Being a smug know-it-all isn't an appealing look, Gene."

"No idea where I got the habit from, Bolls," he retaliated, pointedly.

"Did Desmond know it's a _police_ cricket match...?" Alex asked, changing the subject.

"It's possible I neglected to mention that," Gene admitted. "Didn't want to put him off, did I?"

"He's not going to thank you when he's arrested for affray. Or beaten to a pulp."

"Him? He'll be all right. It's Stillgoe that's got to worry."

"Stillgoe? Why?" Alex frowned.

"Well let's see; white police officer assaulting a black man in a public park in front of witnesses." Gene ticked off the points on his hand as he listed them. "A black man from Brixton, no less. And a police officer who, until last year, was enthusiastically making use of the Sus law right on Brixton's doorstep. _And_ is number one on the Officers We'd Really Like to Get Rid Of list? They'll fall over themselves to hang him out to dry, Bolly. Lord Scarman will probably dance at the wake."

Alex looked at him, her mouth open in a mixture of shock and, loathed as she was to admit it, admiration. _Of all the devious..._

"Now, you going to stand there gaping like a cod all evening, or will you shift your big arse before plod arrives?" He demanded.

Gene wasn't a gentleman. He was a player.

**The End.**


End file.
